She headed purposefully for the little coachman’s cottage adjacent to the garages. On top of it was a tiny clock tower – although the clock had long been broken and stood at twenty past two – and a weathervane in the shape of a fleeing fox. Inside, the ground floor consisted of two rooms crammed with bits of old furniture left by the previous owners that after ten years they still weren’t sure what to do with – a piano, several old chests, a mangle. To the right, a rickety staircase led up from the ground floor, and opened up into one big attic room with wooden floorboards.
Margot had chosen this for her study over the larger downstairs because of the view: out of the low dormer window she could see across the lawns and the gardens and the fields beyond. The view never failed to please her, as she could watch it change with the seasons, and it was the only distraction she allowed herself while writing. There was no telephone, no wireless. No communication with the outside world – just Margot and her imagination.
She thought she had finally got her study just as it should be. It was hard to strike the right balance. It needed to be comfortable, with everything she might need to hand, but not so comfortable as to be distracting. She’d had the floorboards sanded down, and the walls plastered and painted a deep dusky pink that was warm in winter and fresh in the summer. Under the window she’d had a broad desk built in, with room for her typewriter and plenty of space for her notebooks – sometimes she didn’t want to type, she just wanted to scribble. There was a shelf with an Oxford English Dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, and Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. The wall to her left had a large bookcase crammed with copies of all the books she’d published. It was hard to believe when she looked at them – all those spines with her name up the side in curling script, translated into dozens of languages.
There were no other books, because she didn’t want to be tempted to curl up and read. All the books she might read for pleasure were in the house. If she needed to do historical research she went into Oxford and spent a few days in the Bodleian, savouring its hallowed atmosphere and wishing she had been given the chance to study when she was younger. Not that she would have taken the chance if it had been offered. She couldn’t wait to get away from home and go to London. That was where she had met Dai, the handsome, angry Welsh poet, reading his somewhat experimental poems in a pub in Chelsea.
He never wrote poetry now. No one wanted to listen to the musings of a man who wouldn’t fight for his country. He was still angry, though. Even more angry. And somehow his anger seemed to exempt him from doing anything useful whatsoever.
It was ironic, because Dai had been the wordsmith when they met, and it had been his poetry that made her fall in love with him, and she’d never thought about writing and the power of words until they were starving – quite literally starving. And she had sat down one day and it all came trickling out. And bam! She got a book deal. It made Margot feel guilty that her own trite and meaningless words were gobbled up so voraciously by her loyal readers, but it did mean her family could live in relative luxury.
When people asked her what she wrote she gave them a typical Margot look – a flash of mischief with her Elizabeth Taylor eyebrows – and said ‘Jean Plaidy with her knickers down’. Low on historical accuracy and high on drama, no bodice in Margot’s books went unripped and her followers lapped them up.
And Margot didn’t mind writing. There were far worse things to be sentenced to. She didn’t really consider it work.
Until now, that is.
Something was wrong. She felt as if she had used every word in the dictionary, every plot, every character trait. She had used every hair colour possible – raven, flame, flaxen, russet, chestnut – and every eye colour from coal-black to ice blue.
And she sensed a sea change, a certain lukewarmness from her publishers and even her readers. And she had a sense that her agent was holding something back from her. Niggle refused to be drawn. He just told her to get on with the next book. She was supposed to write two a year; this next one was due in four weeks’ time, for publication just before Christmas. A Margot Willoughby was a popular present. Thousands of copies would be carefully wrapped in jolly paper and tucked under a tree for a beloved wife or mother.
Once, the words would have flown freely from her fingertips. She was never short of ideas. As soon as she finished one book she would be on to the next. She had her magic formula, though she worked very hard to keep each book fresh and different, because she didn’t want her readers to get bored or think she was just churning them out.
Today, however, she sat in front of the typewriter and stared at it. She had fed in a fresh sheet of paper with its carbon copy underneath the afternoon before. On it was typed ‘Chapter One’. She had backspaced and underlined it, pecking at the underscore key eleven times, which somehow made it a bolder declaration of intent. But the rest of the page was blank.
She hadn’t written a word yet. Not a single word.
There was a bitter, slightly metallic taste in her mouth. It was panic. It came up from her stomach and into her mouth. She tried to swallow it down.
Just start, she told herself. Every story starts with the first word. She cast about in her head for a sentence to begin with. But there was nothing there.
Nothing.
Sally decided she would give herself a tour of the house, to see what she had let herself in for. There didn’t seem to be anyone at home. Alexander had gone off again in the Jag and the house was very quiet. She hoped no one would think she was snooping if they came across her, but she felt she needed to take stock and make a plan.
She left the kitchen behind, thinking that the detritus had been there for so long that another half an hour wouldn’t make any difference, though before she left she filled the sink with hot water and put the plates in to soak. Then she ventured along the corridor and back out into the hallway.
There was a circular table in the middle covered in magazines, newspapers and letters, some of them ripped open, the envelopes crumpled, and others unopened – most of them looked as if they might be bills. There were boots and shoes and slippers kicked off by the front door and at the bottom of the wide sweeping stairs. There was a bicycle propped against a wall, a pair of roller skates and several tennis rackets. Coats and hats were strewn everywhere or hung on the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. Piles of things were perched on every stair – books, mostly, but also plates and glasses and empty bottles, a stuffed Pink Panther, hairbrushes, a hammer, several lipsticks and powder compacts.
The flagstones were covered in dirt, the pictures covered in dust, and there were cobwebs everywhere. It could be magnificent and welcoming, with just a little effort, Sally thought, and decided this would be her first project after the bombsite that was the kitchen. It was important to feel uplifted when you walked into a house.
She opened the door to the drawing room, expecting more chaos, and stopped short. It was exquisite – dainty and delicate, decorated in pale green and pink, with an elegant fireplace and soft carpet and satin curtains. But it didn’t look as if anyone had been in here for months. It felt frozen in time, as if it was waiting to be discovered. Puzzled, she stepped back and shut the door, then headed for what logically must be the dining room. Would this be a stage set too?
It was quite the reverse. Except for a long table, there was nothing inside to indicate that it was a dining room. Instead, it resembled a combination of a factory and Ali Baba’s cave.
There were bolts of fabric propped up against the wall: paisley, floral, houndstooth, stripes and zigzags in chiffon and velvet and silk. Some were in sludgy damsons and burgundies, others in monochrome, and there were bright pops of colour too. There were boxes full of buttons, sequins and feathers.
There was a sewing machine at the end of the dining table, and in the middle a swathe of fabric with a paper pattern pinned to it, half cut out. Everywhere there were scissors and pins, empty cups and packets of biscuits. Crumbs scattered every surface.
By the window was a long clothes rail, and on it was hung a row of finished items: dresses and jackets and skirts in a rainbow of colours.
And at the far end of the room, Phoebe was making alterations to an outfit on a dressmaker’s dummy, pleating the fabric beneath her fingers until it fitted just so.
She looked up when she heard Sally step into the room. Her mouth was full of pins, but she gave her a wave.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Sally. She had never seen clothes like it, not in her wildest dreams. Knapford had neither required nor supplied high fashion. This was like stepping into a magazine.
Phoebe extricated the pins from her mouth and smiled. ‘Welcome to the sweatshop. I don’t suppose you can sew?’
Sally shook her head. ‘I can mend a tear and sew on a button, but I can’t use a sewing machine.’
‘That’s a pity. It’s all hands on deck at the moment. I have to find women in the village to run things up for me.’
‘Where do you sell all this?’
‘Boutiques in London, mostly. But we’re looking for our own shop eventually.’
‘How exciting!’
‘I know! It will mean loads more work but we get to keep more of the money. Though obviously there’ll be overheads too. And we’ll need staff.’
Sally leafed through the clothes on the rack, silent with admiration and longing.
‘Just shout if you see anything you want. You can have it at cost.’
‘Really?’ Sally’s heart leapt with excitement at the prospect, then she realised she didn’t have anywhere to wear any of the outfits. They were suited to a life of glamour and sophistication that wasn’t her at all.
‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ said Phoebe. ‘I thought you’d think we were mad. But I’m glad you did.’
She smiled shyly. She was quiet and thoughtful compared to the rest of her family, which seemed at odds with her modish image.
‘Have you any idea what anyone would like to eat?’ Sally asked her.
‘Oh God, anything. Anything. We mostly live on bread and cheese and custard creams and peanuts. We’ve probably all got scurvy.’
‘Do you know where I’d find the car keys? Your mum said I could borrow the Mini.’
‘Oh, they’ll be in it, I should think. No one bothers to take them out. Oh, anything but cod in parsley sauce. That makes me retch.’
‘Fish will be on a Friday.’
Phoebe looked startled. ‘Oh.’
Sally laughed. ‘I’m only joking. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be like a proper housekeeper. But I had better do some shopping or I’ll get sacked after my first day if there’s nothing on the table.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Phoebe. ‘You’ll never get sacked. The danger will be you walking out on us. That’s what usually happens.’
It took Sally a while to get used to driving the Mini, and get the hang of the tiny winding roads, as she’d only ever driven the butcher’s van in and around Knapford, but before long she’d reached the outskirts of Peasebrook. She managed to park, and looked up and down to assess the calibre of shops available. What she saw delighted her. It was a proper old-fashioned high street. There were three butchers to choose from, two bakers, a large greengrocer and a fishmonger, a post office – everything she could possibly need. She took note of an ironmonger as well, for her next trip in. The rest of the high street was a mix of antiques shops, a hairdresser, a saddler – she got the feeling that blood sports were the main entertainment in Peasebrook – and a big old coaching inn. It felt a lot more countrified and slower than Knapford. Everyone seemed to have time to stop and chat, whereas people in Knapford always had somewhere or something to get to.
She chose the butcher with the most attractive window display with a knowing eye: she could see the meat was pink and fresh, the sausages plump, plenty of fat on the joints. Inside, she joined the queue, and breathed in the familiar scent of sawdust and blood while she decided what to cook. She thought a beef casserole. If she made one big enough she could leave it for people to help themselves. She thought Hunter’s Moon was probably not used to any sort of routine and the Willoughbys were used to coming and going as they pleased. She could cook a big gammon later in the week, and perhaps a roast chicken . . .
It was her turn, and she gave her order to the butcher: two pounds of stewing steak, a dozen sausages, half a pound of bacon. It was while he was wrapping up her order that the feeling came upon her: a swell of homesickness mixed with a sudden longing for her father. The butcher was nothing like her dad, really, but something in his manner, the deft way he rolled up the meat and wrote the prices down on a brown paper bag in pencil, brought the memories back. She fumbled for money, horrified to find her eyes filling with tears she couldn’t blink back, and she could barely say thank you and goodbye.
She fled the shop and stood on the pavement in the high street, trying to gather herself together but she couldn’t, and suddenly the tears were gathering pace and rolling down her cheeks and she was heaving with sobs.
What on earth was she doing here? Miles from her own home, amongst people she had barely met? How could she possibly think this was going to be a new life? There was nothing familiar to cling to. No one who knew who she was, or even cared. The Willoughbys were obviously taken with the novelty of having her in their midst, but she wasn’t one of them. She was an outsider. She didn’t belong in their house or to their family.
She stood clutching the handle of her shopping basket. She was mad to think this was a good idea. She should go back to Knapford. She would be able to find a job there easily enough, and maybe a flat. She had her brothers, and plenty of old friends, and she knew nearly everyone in the town. And her mum. Her poor mum. How on earth could she have left her?
She was crying too hard to find her way back to the car. She stumbled blindly up the street, thinking she still needed to get vegetables for this evening, when she found a pair of arms wrap themselves around her.
‘Hey. Hey hey hey. What’s up?’
It was Alexander. He looked down at her, his face full of concern.
Sally tried to pull herself together but she just couldn’t. She buried her face in his chest.
‘It’s OK. Nothing’s happened. I went to the butcher and he reminded me of my dad, that’s all.’
‘Poor sweetheart.’ Alexander stroked her hair soothingly. ‘Why don’t you give him a ring tonight? You can use our phone. Mum won’t mind.’
‘I can’t.’ Sally looked up at him. She hadn’t meant to tell him. But she had to explain now or Alexander would think she was unhinged. ‘He’s dead . . . He died. Two years ago.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Alexander looked shocked. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘I should have told you earlier.’
‘No. Not if you didn’t want to. There has to be a right time for those sorts of things.’
He was so sweet. So understanding. For a moment, Sally was tempted to tell him everything. But then she realised they were in the middle of the high street. Here was not the place for a story like that.
‘It’s OK. Sometimes I get used to it and then something makes me remember him.’
‘Of course it does. It’s OK. You’re allowed to cry. Poor you.’
Alexander hugged her tighter, then looked around. ‘This doesn’t look good. People are giving me disapproving looks.’
Sally wiped her eyes and managed a giggle. ‘Perhaps they think you’ve broken my heart.’
‘Probably,’ said Alexander. ‘Come on. What you need is one of the Corn Dolly’s cream teas. I’ve never known a girl not to be cheered up by one of them.’
He led her off down the street to a café with a bow window crammed with cakes and buns.
‘I think we’ve brought the average age down by fifty per cent,’ he remarked in a stage whisper as they took a seat by the fireplace. The rest of the customers seemed to be dressed in tweed with dogs at their feet. A waitress with a mob cap and a frilly apron ar
rived at the table to take their order, and Sally realised that she’d hardly eaten since lunch yesterday.
‘She’ll have one of those big scones with the sultanas in, with cream and jam,’ said Alexander. He patted the back of Sally’s hand. ‘I guarantee you’ll feel a hundred times better afterwards.’
Sally gazed at him in amazement. For all his good looks and his glamour and his wicked ways, Alexander was surprisingly kind.
And he was right. The hot tea, and the scone the size of her fist, and the thick golden cream spread on top followed by strawberry jam lifted her spirits no end, and she soon found herself laughing as Alexander gave her a potted background on the other customers and their peccadilloes.
‘Most of the old bags in Peasebrook disapprove of Mum because she doesn’t go to church or belong to the WI and she works. But they suck up to her like mad because she’s famous, and they’re always trying to get her to open the fete or do a reading at the carol service.’
He reached out and brushed a dollop of cream from Sally’s lip. She blushed and moved away, wiping her mouth herself just to make sure it was all gone.
‘Alexander Willoughby.’
The pair of them looked up to see a woman with short dark curly hair standing by their table. She was in a fitted hacking jacket and tight jodhpurs.
‘Long time no see, you naughty boy.’ Her brown eyes were laughing and a smile played around the corners of her mouth.
‘Hilly.’ Alexander stood up, and indicated Sally. ‘This is Sally. Sally, this is Hilly, a friend of the family.’
‘What a very dull description.’ Hilly swept Sally up and down with an appraising glance. Then she turned back to Alexander. ‘What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you for months. I’ve missed you.’
There was definitely a tone of reprimand in her voice. Was it wistful? Sally couldn’t be sure.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 9
